Kitchen Smiles
by GemiDonnie
Summary: And as Donatello sat on the other side of the table, he finally realized the reason. The way you could realize that the sky was blue.   Some things aren't what they seem. And Leo, well. Leo is a sneak. Leo/Don, turtlecest, incest.


Two hands brushed against each other; shoulders bumped, and small glances were exchanged. There was warmth in both of their eyes, and they were surrounded by comfortable silence. By the dripping of water from the pipes. Hands entwined, fingers blending into each other in the shadows. A thumb rubbed circles on green skin.

Donatello began to hum on the first song that entered his mind.

Leonardo pressed closer, until all Don could do was lean into a wall. Let his brother take charge, eyes closing and smile stuck on his face as kisses rained upon him.

Their hands stayed together.

It didn't surprise Donatello that they missed the dinner; the junkyard had taken a lot of time, and even more time had been lost when Leonardo constantly stopped him on the rooftops to silently touch and stroke. Kiss and hug. Leo rarely used words. Not like Don, who turned into a blabbering dictionary as they spent time together. It seemed as if Leonardo could communicate perfectly with a mere swipe of hand, with a twitch of muscles. With an edged smile and glimmering eyes.

But Donatello _hated _being late. He always lost track of time, which was an embarrassing thing to do. Especially when he was known as the Fix-it-all-turtle, the brother who was able of building practically anything, yet he lost track of _time_.

So he offered a sheepish smile as Master Splinter reprimanded them lightly. Rolled his eyes at Mikey's teasing, promised Raph that they could check on the bike the next day.

Donatello dropped the junk in his lab and tried to act as if he wasn't embarrassed at all; but the way those eyes watched him made sure that he knew it didn't work.

They placed the chicken wings in the microwave. Small talk passed between them as they waited. Don could hear Raphael and Michelangelo cheer someone on; maybe there was a game going on. Master Splinter came in to get his tea. Left within a short moment, but only after dropping them a few words. They leant against each other, and Donatello thought about how different Leo looked, depending on the light. Before, in the alleys' and the sewers' shadows, he looked edged and sharp and mysterious. Now, in the kitchen's warm light, he was something familiar. Something comfortable and safe and affectionate.

The microwave said 'ping', interrupting their casual conversation.

Leo grabbed their plates and put them on the table. Don grabbed the milk from the fridge, and thought about how he had to check it tomorrow, together with Raph's bike. It wasn't as cold as it should be. And then the genius turned around, and his eyes caught on the large scar. The one that abruptly cut off the lip of Leo's shell. The one that would never heal.

Donatello eyed it. Put the milk carton on the table, before he did something daring.

Olive arms wrapped around a leaf green body. He could feel Leo tense, but he ignored it. Pressed his lips against Leo's nape, before he kissed the scarred shell. The sensitive part, and he murmured something under his breath.

Leo tilted his head. Murmured something back, and then mentioned the cooling dinner.

Don snorted and let go. Sat down, and they once more began to talk.

And then Donatello understood. Why they so often got home late, why Leo always was the one that made sure of it. Why his brother never seemed to feel shame about it, and how he almost seemed _proud_ when they entered an empty kitchen.

Don suddenly understood the reason, in the same way you could understand the sky was blue. So obvious. And it made him smile brightly, made him snort and gain the other turtle's attention. He wondered if he ever lost it. If Leo ever looked away.

"You _sneak_," he whispered across the table. "You wanted us to get home late, didn't you?"

Leonardo raised an eye ridge. Quirked a smug smile, even as fingers brushed when he passed the salt. He picked up his fork once more.

"I see it as having a reversed date," he murmured. "Groping, kissing, moonlight. Dinner."

Donatello's smile widened. Obsidian eyes connected with hazels, and something passed between them. Something they couldn't touch, and they never bothered to try.

"I love you," the genius whispered. Words rarely uttered here, in the familiar kitchen light, with their family so close and loud and intruding.

Leo didn't answer.

But his eyes burnt with warmth, and that was good.

That was enough.

Because Leonardo rarely used words, and he rarely needed them.

His eyes and that smile screamed out what Don could only whisper.

And that was enough.


End file.
